


White Wine

by thebisexualbanshee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Ficlet, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Thanksgiving, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisexualbanshee/pseuds/thebisexualbanshee
Summary: Dean doesn't drink wine. But to prove Sam and Cas wrong, he just might pop that pinot.





	

Dean Winchester doesn’t drink wine. Not at home, anyway, and especially not the girly white stuff. He won’t turn it down when he’s at Jody’s—he doesn’t want to be rude—but it’s what he calls “bitch booze.” He’d always rather just have a beer. So when Castiel shows up out of the blue on Thanksgiving day with not just one, but six bottles of Pinot Grigio, Dean isn’t sure how to react.

If he’s being honest with himself, Cas showing up isn’t _entirely_ unexpected either. He’d let himself hope just a bit too hard, pushing his thoughts into the prayer category, but he was relieved to see his angel nonetheless. Bitch booze and all.

“Cas, hey,” Dean smiles as the blue-eyed man descends the stairs. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I always come when you call,” Cas offers a bare smile back, bottles clinking loudly together in the bags hanging from his forearms. “Where should I put these?”

“Uhh—kitchen, I guess. C’mon,” Dean waves him over. “Mom and Sam are in there cooking. I think it’s about done…shit.”

Cas pauses, tilting his head at Dean. “Is there something wrong with your mother’s cooking?” He wonders, eyes narrow.

“No, it’s just,” Dean shrugs, “You know. You don’t eat. Kind of hoped you’d get to have a real American Thanksgiving.” He keeps on towards the kitchen, and Cas follows.

Dean doesn’t see it, but Castiel beams the softest of smiles in answer. “There’s more to be thankful for than food, Dean.”

A woman’s laugh echoes into the hall moments before they enter the kitchen, and they round the corner to find Mary doubled over in hysterics. A large area near the stove is coated in so much flour it might as well be snow, and in the middle is a very snowman-looking Sam. Dean and Cas pause in the doorway, and Dean can’t help but smile. Is this what they’d missed out on for so many years?

Mary straightens and composes herself, barely, and wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “Castiel, I’m glad you could make it,” she breathes, still trying to recover. “We were trying to make rolls, and—“ Her words are interrupted by another bout of laughter. Sam has started dusting himself off and shaking his head, and with the clouds of flour ballooning from his hair, he looks startlingly like a wet dog.

“There will be no rolls,” Sam manages through a cough. “I’m gonna—hey, Cas. I’m gonna go change.”

“So, no rolls,” Dean grins, but neither he nor Cas escape without a white handprint from Sam as the larger Winchester retreats to his room.

“You’ll have to do without, I’m afraid,” Mary answers, dusting herself off as well.

“No, Mom, this is great. We haven’t—“ Dean starts, but catches himself. “Me and Sammy, you know. Hasn’t been a real Thanksgiving in a long time for us.”

Cas has been silent, observational; watching Sam and Dean with their mother is a strange, new phenomenon. There’s a softness in hunters he never knew existed—a childhood gone missing that’s been, at least partially, found. And without thinking, he blurts, “Actually, I should be going. I just wanted to drop this off,” he lifts the bags of wine. “There is still much to do, even though Lucifer—“

“Woah, Cas,” Dean balks, habitually grasping Castiel’s shoulder. “Come on, stay with us. You’re family.”

“Dean, I can’t intrude on your first Thanksgiving with your mother back,” Cas mumbles lowly, but Mary interjects.

“You’re family,” she echoes, reaching to take the wine from Cas. “I haven’t been here. You have. And you’re staying.”

“I’d do what she says,” Dean smirks, letting go of Cas’s shoulder after maybe just a bit too long.

Dean swears he thinks he sees Castiel’s blue eyes well with tears for a moment, but his angel is so hard to read sometimes, and before three seconds have gone by, the glinting in his eyes is gone, and he’s moving towards the stove. “Well, at least tell me how I can help,” the angel offers.

Dean smiles, and so does Mary. He sinks into a chair at the table and watches, for a while, as Mary explains cranberry sauce and cornbread to Castiel, and the difference between dressing and stuffing (“What is the purpose of placing breadcrumbs into the hollowed-out corpse of a bird?”). He stays like this for a time, a contentment he’s never truly known settling into his chest. Eventually, when Sam comes back, he helps his brother set the table. The Men of Letters kept some damn fancy china.

*** 

“I don’t really drink wine,” Dean covers the top of his glass when Cas tries to pour him a drink.

Cas, having been coached by Mary, has been circling the table like a cheesy waiter in a fancy restaurant, pouring wine for the Winchesters with his typical sternness. “Dean, I believe it’s customary,” Cas complains, hovering by the elder brother.

“And since when do you turn down any kind of alcohol, like…ever?” Sam smirks, though he gets a look from Mary. “Sorry, Mom. We’re uhh—we’re all twenty-one.”

“I mean, it’s just—you know, it’s fruity, and the sugar, and it makes me feel all weird, and--” Dean starts, but Sam pounces.

“Oh my god. You’re a wine lightweight. Aren’t you?” He taunts.

“Okay, know what? Fine,” Dean pulls his hand from his glass. “Fill ‘er up, Cas. And hey, leave the bottle.”

Cas does as he’s told and takes his seat beside Dean. He doesn’t eat, but he does drink, and watches the newly reunited Winchester family enjoy their first Thanksgiving.

“I don’t know what you’ve got against it,” Castiel mumbles to Dean about halfway through the meal. He swirls his wine in his glass. “The molecular composition of this beverage is quite pleasant.”

Dean pours another glass—his fourth—and shakes his head. “This one ain’t bad, but it’s, I dunno, kindof a chick thing.”

“Is this undesireable?” Cas wonders, and Mary and Sam have zoned in on their conversation now, eating silently, watching. “You seem to enjoy most other aspects of the female sex.”

Dean chokes on a too-large bite of sweet potato, coughing and shooting a glance up to his mother and brother. Mary is curious, but Sam is grinning from ear to ear. “Shut up,” he mutters to his brother, and then turns his attention back to Cas. “It’s just not a thing dudes do, you know?”

“But you like plenty of things that are considered feminine by other members of your species,” Cas tilts his head.

“Like chick flicks,” Sam chimes in, enjoying this far too much. His cheeks are flushed red with wine warmth.

“And you used to like dolls,” Mary admits, much to Dean’s dismay. At his betrayed gasp across the table, she simply shrugs, and mouths “sorry” through a grin.

“And you’ve been staring at him for years,” Sam grins, sweeping a hand in Castiel’s direction. Almost immediately, though, he falters, and the table falls silent. A redness that has nothing to do with wine creeps up behind the freckles on Dean’s cheeks, and he shoves up from the table. “Dean…” Sam sighs, but Dean simply drains his glass of wine and stalks for the hall.

Castiel is silent, mouth agape as he watches the older hunter disappear (not without a small stagger). Sam is staring at the door, and Mary is staring at Cas. Finally, Sam clears his throat.

“Cas, I’m sorry, that was—it was out of line,” Sam begins, but Mary interrupts.

“You should go after him, Castiel,” she says, rising from the table. “Sam and I will get the dishes.”

Cas looks to them both, hopelessly, but nods, standing and gliding silently out after Dean.

*** 

The angel finds Dean slumped in a chair in the library, rubbing his temple. The room is dark; the only light filters in from the door that leads to the hall. “Dean?”

The hunter clears his throat. “Cas,” Dean answers simply, voice low. “What is it? Got a headache, man.”

Cas pauses a few feet from Dean’s chair, off to the side. He watches the hunter and answers quietly, cautiously, “Your mother seemed to think I should check on you.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, sounds right.” He clears his throat again and begins, “Cas, listen…”

“I know you stare at me,” Castiel cuts him off, and though it’s dark, he’s sure he can feel the heat in Dean’s cheeks radiating off the hunter’s body. “It’s alright,” he continues, softly. “I stare at you, too.”

“I know,” Dean mutters, refusing to look up at Castiel. His gaze is on his hands, and he’s slumped forwards in his seat.

Cas comes to kneel before him, exhaling deeply. “Humans,” he begins through a sigh, “are so complicated. So wonderful.”

“What are we doing?” Dean blurts, looking up at Cas, finally. This time, it’s his eyes that glint with tears. “All of this? You and me?”

“We’re having Thanksgiving dinner, with our family,” Cas answers softly. He reaches out and gingerly envelops Dean’s hands with his own. “I’m having my first Thanksgiving dinner with my new family, and it’s good.”

Dean doesn’t answer—just continues watching Cas. So the angel continues, “Your mother is very kind. I doubt I was helping much in the kitchen, but she let me believe I was. And she was telling me about your tradition in America, of being thankful, and showing it today.” He breathes out a sigh through his nostrils. “It’s—this feeling, desire—it’s difficult to understand what I have for you. But I do know that I’m grateful for it. For you. I’m thankful for you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s breathing stops—he’s holding his breath, and Cas reaches up to touch his cheek. He can feel the Winchester’s heart racing even from there. “I’d do it all again. Happy Thanksgiving, Dean.” Cas lifts himself higher onto his knees and sweeps his first kiss across Dean’s lips.

*** 

Sam and Mary finish up the dishes, and Mary goes on to bed. They don’t see Dean and Castiel again for the rest of the night, but when Sam is making his nightly round of the bunker, through the library door, he can barely make out two figures huddled together in the dark, and the telltale, breathless sounds of love.


End file.
